


Ubiquitous

by kiafeles



Series: Kindred Spirits and Troubled Minds [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiafeles/pseuds/kiafeles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance turns away and fiddles with his bayard to hide his thoughts. He’s always been expressive, but he would like those expressions to be chosen by his conscious mind, thank you very much. As he stares down at the gun in his hands, he flexes his fingers, relishing the warmth that comes from the tool. It’s a different sort of warmth than he’s used to, unlike the warmth of a mother, of fire, or of blood, but warm all the same. In fact, it reminds him of Blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ubiquitous

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time writing for the Voltron fandom so it's mostly just the result of me wanting to put my feelings into words. I hope you like it!

Lance is quiet as he enters the training room, but brimming with unspent energy. He’s not one to actively seek out exercise most days, but he’s been so _bored_ lately that even he needs a short reprieve in one of the simulations, simply so he can do _something_  distracting.

 

He expects to see Keith or Shiro already there—the pair are the most athletically inclined of their little space brigade, for better or worse—but for once, no one is there. He recalls Pidge’s voice in the back of his head and something about ‘repairs’ and ‘experiments,’ but unlike Hunk, Lance doesn’t understand what she means. He can hardly keep up with their unique brand of technical jargon, so he usually just spaces out when they go off.

 

He likes to think he contributes something to the team, adds something to Voltron, but intellect is not it. Neither is brute strength, he surmises, or leadership, or genuine camaraderie...

 

Lance shakes his head and pulls his bayard out in front of him to examine. It shines from its recent buffing (also Pidge’s work) and glints beneath the fluorescent lights as he turns it over and over. The tool has been helpful for sure, but he still hasn’t managed to use it in Voltron itself, or really as precisely as he would like on the battlefield. The others excel at close combat in one sense or the other, but Lance can see his weapon for what it truly is—long range defense.

 

He wishes to try it out on the battlefield, he really does, but when adrenaline takes over and you have to fall back on instincts just to make it out alive, taking a detour to test out the flashy gun just doesn’t seem logical.

 

So why not try now? With the training room clear, he’s free to do as he wishes. Stepping up to a control panel on the wall, he types in the desired features of his simulated environment. He could just as well speak it and the computer would follow his command, but he needs the specificity that comes only when he writes, when he’s forced to slow down and describe things deeper than at the surface level of his typical verbal communication.

 

Platforms rise up in zigzagged patterns along the ground, adding depth to the once blank room. Lance walks over to the far end of the room opposite of the entrance and climbs up, up, up. As the room warps, shaping and reshaping reality around him, he finds himself looking down from an impressive height at a target in front and below him. Many other targets are unobstructed by the new 3D environment he’s constructed, but some are half hidden behind walls or through glass, peaking out, as if silently daring him to attempt them. 

 

Taking a deep breath, he settles down into position, combining all he has been taught at the Garrison, by Shiro and Allura and the other members in the castle, and from what he has read and experienced himself.

 

He hits the first target with startling accuracy, near the ‘chest’ of the oblong object, and he feels a bit of swelling pride. Not the kind that Shiro admonishes him for, that Keith grits his teeth at, or that he presents to attractive females of any species. This pride is purer, less of a front so much as an appreciation of something he, a member of Voltron, can do to help his team. 

 

He may be the leg of Voltron, but that doesn’t mean he can’t also act as the eyes every once in a while. And as the eyes, he’ll make damn well sure to cover his teammates when the need arises. He may not be anything special, he may not be a prodigy like Keith or Shiro, an esteemed princess like Allura, or even as smart and sacrificial as Hunk and Pidge and Coran, but he can do something, at least, with this small glimpse of ability.

 

He finds himself taking a deep breath to steady his hands and heartbeat. He’s useless on the battlefield if he can’t control his body like he controls his emotions. Behind the grins and leers lies a coldness, one that Lance taps into during moments such as this, when he requires the precision of a champion.

 

He fires off ten more shots and moves on, fires ten more, and moves on, then repeats. He climbs up and down, over and through, trying combination after combination. His accuracy decreases steadily over time, as fatigue creeps into his arms and legs and exhaustion messes with the sharp lines of his form and mind.

 

He sets the training simulation to something that more resembles melee fighting and promptly finds himself landing on his ass, multiple times. The gun, now used in close combat, no longer carries its same deadly power, and he calls out with a shaky breath to stop the simulation as he sits on the ground, rubbing at his thigh. One of the drones hit him, hard, and he rubs at the offending spot, already dreading the bruise. He should be more careful, he knows. More agile, more inquisitive, more _there_. But he knows he’s working through a fog at this point, and his aching limbs and straining mind tell him to stop.

 

Lance of a few years ago would have listened to these signs of fatigue. He would have picked up his gun—one now lying in front of him where it had been kicked out of his hands by a drone—and moved on, heading to the showers to clean himself up and prepare for bed. Lance of a few years ago, hell a few months ago even, would have patted himself on the back and said, “good work, Lance. You’ve done enough. You’ve done all you could. Give yourself a break.”

 

But breaks are not doled out like candy in the void of space, and rest comes only to those untouched by strife, only to those who can experience the value of undisturbed slumber and who grip to it with fingers devoid of scars and strain. Lance has not seen the worst of it. Far from it. He’s not been captured by Galra, or dealt with a backstory as depressing as Allura’s or Keith’s, or faced the daily fear of lost family members like Pidge. Lance grew up with a family and a goal, with friends and a future. 

 

He grits his teeth and tells himself he doesn’t deserve the rest. He sleeps at night because the only people he has to personally worry about are on this ship or back on Earth. And he worries, boy, does he worry, but his life has been easy, comparatively. He doesn’t deserve a break, not like those around him, who fight everyday simply to wake up from a helpless, fitful sleep.

 

So despite the blooming bruise on his thigh and the crick of his neck, Lance gets up and verbally instructs the simulation to start over from the beginning. The walls drop away to a more reasonable height, simulating flatter terrain. He needs to learn close combat, he needs to become a better asset to the team, and he needs to find a role other than that of the ship’s sassmaster.

 

He hardly notices the soft footsteps of another as the door to the training room opens, but he does notice as the drone’s shiny, lifeless eyes shift to something behind him.

 

Shiro blinks back at the mechanical lines, and the sound of metal whirring and preparing for attack flash in Lance’s ears. It takes a moment for Lance to register that the whining is not coming from where Shiro is standing, but from the drone, which has taken a step toward Shiro. Shiro’s eyes widen in alarm, and he holds up his arm— _why is there only one of them_ , Lance thinks groggily—and aims at Shiro’s unguarded form. Shiro opens his mouth to speak, but Lance beats him to it.

 

“End simulation!” he gasps, and the drone freezes. It stands, a silver statue, one hand pointed at Shiro’s head and the other at Lance’s abdomen, before the whirring sounds resumes, quieter this time. In an instant, the sound splutters and stops, and the drone falls through the floor to wait for its next activation.

 

Lance’s brow furrows, and he feels a bit of irritation towards Shiro. Who just walks into a training room like that, without checking for potential threats? Everyone had heard Keith’s story of the training robot from hell, and Shiro himself had been the one to warn everyone of safety within the vicinity of the room, but he hasn’t even followed his own instructions. 

 

Lance turns away and fiddles with his bayard to hide his thoughts. He’s always been expressive, but he would like those expressions to be chosen by his conscious mind, thank you very much. As he stares down at the gun in his hands, he flexes his fingers, relishing the warmth that comes from the tool. It’s a different sort of warmth than he’s used to, unlike the warmth of a mother, of fire, or of blood, but warm all the same. In fact, it reminds him of Blue.

 

Knowing where his thoughts are straying, Blue chimes in Lance’s inner ear. He listens as the lion speaks to him, cooing in a way that only he can hear. He’s considered bringing up the strange sensation to the other paladins, but from what he has seen, only Keith has ever mentioned feeling the lion’s presence in such a way while this far from the cockpit of the lions themselves. The others obviously sense the lions, but Lance doubts that the coherence of everyone’s silent conversations compare to that of his own.

 

No use worrying anyone with the indigo voices in his head. Especially not Keith. It’s possible he may understand in a deeper manner than any other, but there’s no way Lance would broach the topic with him. It would only end in a fight, despite Lance’s mostly innocent intentions. He’s knows his pugnacious self.

 

“You were training in here?”

 

Lance tries not to feel annoyed at the incredulity of Shiro’s tone, instead focusing his attention on the bayard. He mentally pushes for it to retract to its simpler, more portable state, and blinks when it pushes back against his command. Clearing his throat, he pushes down any uneasiness he feels at the dead sensation rising from the weapon and instead drops the bayard to his side, clicking the safety and turning fully to the older paladin. As his eyes drift up, his mind confirms what he had seen earlier. Instead of staring, Lance elects to lock eyes with Shiro and speak.

 

“Yeah. I thought I could get some extra practice in. Without you and Keith hogging up the space, I was free to play as I pleased.”

 

He can hardly call it playing, but it was enjoyable, in some way. He knows he has pushed himself past a few limits here, and that much, at least, is rewarding.

 

“Right.” Shiro purses his lips, visibly noting the new burn marks that adorn the floor. The room will take care of itself just as most Altean technology does, through self-recovery and remarkable sustainability, but for the next few hours the marks will act as evidence of Lance’s activities.

 

Lance licks his own dry lips as he walks toward the door and Shiro. He punches a panel on the wall on his way there, and the last vestiges of his specialized simulation melt away with remarkable fluidity.

 

“You’re free to use it now, Shiro. I’m gonna go wash up.”

 

When Lance had first met Shiro, months ago in that rinky-dink shack of Keith’s, Lance couldn’t believe he was actually meeting _the_  Takashi Shirogane. Despite the more ambivalent opinions that had arisen after the failed Kerberos mission, Lance had never swayed on his evaluation of the man. Shiro was a legend, a prodigy who climbed through school with perfect grades, endless commendations, and numerous others skills to boot. He was the perfect cookie cutter role model, an example of selflessness and perfection to follow. The only thing that tarnished his name was Kerberos, and even those critics of Shiro could never slander him enough to remove the cloud of respect that followed his apparent death.

 

The man in front of Lance now is far from that perfect image fed to Lance from the media and down the grapevine of the Garrison. The image in front of him now—white hair on a man far too young, scar in a place far too prominent, and arm missing on one side—does not match the image that Lance had grown up with and admired.

 

Instead, they offer something else to look up to. Something that cannot be raised on a pedestal, shrouded in shining lights and scrutinizing stares.

 

The same base qualities are still there. The selflessness, the devotion, and the courage all stand. Lance thinks these traits will never disappear, and it’s these traits that make Shiro deserving of the black lion. Lance knows that Shiro doubts himself, that he questions his worthiness on every mission. The image of the black lion is probably permanently imprinted in the man’s mind as he sleeps and present in his head even as a soft voice whispers to him that he is not _the one_.

 

Lance wonders when his thoughts stopped becoming solely his own. He knows Blue is there, and that she gives him an unfair advantage in understanding his fellow paladins. Lance knows that his thoughts and emotions are a combination of those that come from within and that which he feels around him and through the lions, but he doesn’t address it.

 

Perhaps he should, one day. Perhaps he should tell Shiro to his face that he recognizes these traits that represent his imperfection. The physical, the mental, and the spiritual. The traits that Shiro sees in a dark, purple light but that Lance sees as individual signs of an extraordinary life.

 

But Lance does not speak up, because he thinks it is not his place to.

 

Shiro is strong and Shiro will survive, because the perfection he flaunted before the Kerberos mission has been replaced by the raw, throbbing vitality of identity. Shiro does not need Lance to show him who he is now. Shiro of the past is the man that Lance adored. Shiro of the present is the man that Lance respects. 

 

Blue whines in his ear, urging him to break his self imposed silence and _speak_ , but he shuts her out. He knows what he is doing.

 

It is evident that Shiro knows what he is doing as well, because he holds out his arm in front of Lance to stop him. 

 

“I’m not actually here to train,” he says. “I’ve just been wandering around the ship until Pidge finishes. She’s, uh…”

 

He holds out the stump that is his right arm and shrugs.

 

“She’s adding some enhancements, I think. And maybe painting it. I told her not to, but I can’t really trust that she won’t do something, can I?”

 

Lance lets out a breathy laugh. He’s tired and wants nothing more than to sleep, but Pidge’s supposed antics have put a smile on his face. Images of Shiro with a colorful, decorated arm, mowing down Galra after Galra in all of his rainbow glory, fill Lance’s vision. It reminds him of when he was eight and had broken his arm after falling out of a tree, when he was forced to wear a cast that all the other kids in his class drew on. He never used it as a weapon, obviously, but the memory tinges the present with a bit of nostalgia, and Lance feels the past and the imaginary converging.

 

“I don’t know of her art skills, but Hunk’s a closet artist, let me tell you. The man can _draw_. He’s not with Pidge, is he?”

 

Shiro smiles, open and familiar. “Actually, he is.”

 

“Then you’re doomed,” Lance smirks. “But at least your arm will be pretty.”

 

Shiro chuckles at that and an easy atmosphere falls over the pair. Lance moves to leave the training room behind him and Shiro follows, and the two pad down the hall in the general direction of the showers. Their path isn’t very linear, and they meander along at a snail’s pace through the castle, but Lance can for once enjoy it. It’s not an intense, driven walk, and as such, conflicts with the way Lance usually does things, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

 

Shiro is the first to break the silence.

 

“You were practicing with your bayard?”

 

Lance nods, holding the gun up to his chest proudly.

 

“I’m a pretty good shot if you ask me.”

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” The sincerity of Shiro’s words shatter Lance’s bravado, and grips the weapon tenderly, at once reminded of the deadly power he holds in his hands.

 

“It certainly beats Keith’s sword. Who even uses a sword anymore? We’re defenders of the universe, not pirates,” Lance bites, but the bitterness at his ‘rival’ is easily pushed away, and Lance knows that Shiro hears it when he rolls his eyes. 

 

“They’re both dangerous weapons,” Shiro scoffs. “Put that thing away. You’ll hurt somebody if you’re just waving it around.”

 

“Um,” Lance begins, struggling for words. He can’t exactly tell Shiro that he’s tried, a few times now as they’ve walked down the hall, and that the bayard refuses to listen to him. He’s even reached out to Blue to inquire why, but she hasn’t answered him, for once the quiet one in their relationship. So, in the face of his confusion, he chooses the comfortable plan of action: he jokes.

 

“Don’t you think I look more intimidating with it out?” He doesn’t accentuate his point by posing with the gun like he could, but he does lift it up a bit, smiling with teeth that he hopes shine as bright as the alien metal in his hands.

 

Shiro levels him a deadpan stare, and Lance knows that he can’t continue with this nonsense. He fiddles a bit with the gun, the bayard refuses to respond, and his jaw drops as it actually _hisses_  at him.

 

“What the hell?” he murmurs, flipping it over to examine it further. To his side, Shiro tenses in typical fashion, his default reaction when presented with something he doesn’t understand that he really, really should. The context is different, obviously, but the body language can be read loud and clear.

 

“What’s wrong?” he presses, stopping in the middle of the hallway to plant his feet.

 

“It, well, it won’t listen to me.” How can Lance say this without sounding like a failure of a paladin? His bayard is his to use, and if he can’t use it, then what advantage does he bring during combat? He doesn’t have the fancy Galra arm like Shiro does, and while he’s certainly not jealous of it, he kind of knows that without a functioning bayard, he’s at a sore disadvantage.

 

“It won’t retract?” Shiro clarifies. He’s had little to no experience with the bayards himself, due to the sorry fact the Zarkon of all people has the black paladin’s bayard, but he understands their basic functions, and can recognize when one of them doesn’t work like they’re supposed to.

 

“Yeah, it just—”

 

Lance grunts as he mentally pushes one more time, before finally giving up, sighing as he drops the weapon to his side.

 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Maybe I broke it while training, or in that last fight?”

 

Or maybe it’s just old, he thinks. It was bound to stop working at one point or another, especially after ten thousand years of disuse.

 

“At least it’s stuck in the form I can use,” he grumbles, before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. Who knows what Shiro could be thinking now, watching Lance’s pitiful display?

 

“That’s odd,” Shiro finally says, his expression pensive. “Maybe Pidge or Hunk can take a look at it. Or Allura. It is Altean technology, after all.”

 

Lance suspects the the problem is beyond the physical and into the metaphysical, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts. Instead he shrugs, and Shiro leads them off to Pidge’s lab.

 

Lance is still tired and grimy as hell, but he knows Pidge won’t care about his sweaty state. She’s probably just as gross as he is, and covered with additional foul fluids like oil and alien goo.

 

When they finally reach the lab, Lance doesn’t immediately spot Hunk. At Shiro’s questioning gaze, Pidge explains that Hunk has gone off to sleep. It is at this moment that Lance realizes how late it is, at least by castle standards. The three of them are probably the only ones still awake. Maybe Allura too, because Lance can never tell her sleeping schedule, but he suspects even she is slumbering in her room at this hour.

 

Pidge pushes up her glasses and evaluates the two boys as they step beside her. Lance gives her a wink and she gags, and Shiro ignores them both to reach out and lightly brush his fingertips over the metal of his detached arm. It lays lifeless to his touch on the table, as cold as the empire from which it comes. Lance notes that it doesn’t sport a new coat of paint, either, but the detail is trivial at this moment.

 

Shiro retreats and blinks at Pidge, and she responds to his silent question.

 

“Sorry to keep you awake for so long, Shiro, but I don’t think I’m quite done. Could I keep the arm overnight?” 

 

Lance winces for Shiro, but the older man doesn’t act like the question fazes him.

 

“Don’t worry about me, Pidge. But don’t stay up later than you need to.”

 

“Really, I just need a few more hours—”

 

Shiro levels a stare and Pidge pouts, letting her tools thump on the work table in front of her. 

 

“You’re insufferable,” she mutters. She reaches down beneath the table and pulls out what looks like a metal shoebox filled with raw cotton, before placing Shiro’s arm inside and shutting the lid.

 

“I’ll be done tomorrow, I promise. I’ll come get you as soon as I can and then we can reconnect it.”

 

Lance absently wonders if it was painful to take the arm off. He’s never understood any of the biology behind the arm himself, but he assumes Shiro has some semblance of feeling in it, some form of action and reaction that while foreign to humans, gives him a sense of skeleton control.

 

“The Galra tech is fighting me,” Pidge clips, frustration in every inch of her body as she traces the edges of the box. “I don’t think it likes me tinkering with it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Pidge. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” With his flesh and blood hand, Shiro goes to ruffle her hair, before ushering her off her seat to stand. 

 

“I know,” she responds, her determination only dampened by the dark circles under her eyes. “It’s just taking a while to get there. But,” she swallows, looking up to Shiro. “Thank you for letting me look at it. I think what I’m learning from it could be useful in the future.”

 

Shiro smiles in approval, and despite the implications of Pidge’s statement, doesn’t falter. Galra tech is Galra tech, and most of it _is_  unfriendly, but Lance can tell that he and Pidge know that it’s not so much where the tech comes from, but how it’s used that proves its worth.

 

Lance glances down at his bayard and wonders if the same philosophy applies.

 

“Could you also learn a little bit about the bayards?” Lance shakes the gun a bit to indicate his frustration. “This thing’s acting up.”

 

“Acting up?” Pidge says, and it’s only Shiro’s hand on her back that keeps her from sitting back down and demanding that the weapon is laid down in front of her.

 

“It won’t retract.” Lance stares at it with exaggerated concentration and the weapon responds with the same level of enthusiasm as earlier; that is to say, it doesn’t respond, and Pidge tilts her head in thought.

 

“Did you damage it?”

 

“No!” Lance throws his hands up and the gun follows, and he shrinks at Pidge and Shiro’s panicked expressions, quickly pointing the gun back down to the floor. 

 

“No, I don’t think I damaged it. But it’s pissing me off. How am I supposed to save countless lives with this thing out of commission? It was fine in the training room.”

 

“So it still shoots then,” Pidge confirms, and despite Shiro’s grunts of protest, she has already taken the gun from Lance’s grip, flipping it over as she checks for any superficial defects.

 

“There’s probably some setting keeping it stuck. I’ll see if I can take it apart and run some—”

 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Shiro says, pulling Pidge from her position once more, this time with more force. She audibly protests but Shiro is pushing her out of the door at this point, and she digs in her heels to no avail. 

 

Lance grabs the gun again as Shiro inches Pidge toward the exit, and she grumbles bitterly, “Okay, okay, I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you, Pidge,” Lance says, and he means it. It still works, doesn’t it? It’s not like the problem is urgent, not like Shiro’s arm. Pidge would be wasting her time fixing it when she could be working on reattaching Shiro’s appendage, and Lance opens his mouth to say just that, but is interrupted.

 

“Altean technology is as troublesome as Galra tech, at times. But at least we have Alteans on board to give me some sort of direction,” Pidge evaluates, biting her lip as the trio walks down the hall toward the showers and sleeping quarters. Shiro stands at the back, as if guarding the other two from retreating back the other way.

 

It’s this relaxed, playful scene that catches the trio unawares, this scene of almost domesticity, of normalcy that is far from normal but which they must call a typical day. 

 

The lights flicker in the hall and Shiro jolts behind them, before they are all suddenly drenched in darkness. It takes another moment for the emergency lights to kick back on and an alarm to sound, but the trio is already in defensive positions, drawing closer together as they bound down the hall to their rooms. 

 

Three misfits, Lance thinks, each flawed, each unique. It’s comforting, in the face of such surprises.

 

They need to get suited up and fast. Lance squints at the harsh shrill of the alarm as they sprint to their quarters. Couldn’t they have chosen something less loud? Coran’s been going through a renovation phase and the alarm was one of the first things to get an update, but couldn’t he have chosen something that didn’t make Lance’s ears bleed?

 

They rush into their quarters in record time, catching Keith as he sprints out of his own room, hair only slightly disheveled as he rushes to place his helmet on. He catches sight of Pidge, Shiro, and Lance as they rush into their own rooms, eyes widening as he regards them. Any comments Shiro’s way are swallowed when Keith jumps back, dodging Hunk as he barrels out of his room.

 

“What, where, what’s going on?” Hunk shouts over the grating alarms. He’s also donned his suit, staring as the other three paladins approach.

 

“It doesn’t matter, just move!” Shiro shoos them away and the group scatters, three into their rooms and two off down the hall. Lance enters his own room and nearly faceplants as he rushes to put on his armor, shuffling into the metal pants like an uncoordinated sidewinder. He mentally curses himself for not wearing the uniform during practice. Because while the armor definitely wouldn’t qualify as comfortable clothing, it takes time that they don’t have just to put it on in situations like these. They should really just get used to wearing it around every day.

 

When he’s finally finished, he runs out to see Pidge turning the corner down the hall, only to stumble as an explosion rocks the ship. It’s far enough away that he thinks it hasn’t done much damage, but it’s worrisome all the same. 

 

“We’ve been boarded!”

 

The message, shouted over the castle’s intercom, answers the unspoken Allura question. She’s obviously in the control room then, dealing with the castle defenses. 

 

“It’s not Galra, but—aghh!” her shout cuts off as the castle rocks again. “They’re entering the third level. I don’t know how they could have gotten past the particle barrier but—” Her voice doesn’t resound down the halls after the announcement sputters and dies, and Lance takes the radio silence as just another sign to get his butt in gear.

 

With only a tick’s hesitation, he rushes over to check on Shiro in his room, hoping that the man is already on his way toward the lions. Lance finds Shiro huffing with the final chest plate. The armor for his right arm is discarded on his bed and Lance clenches his jaw, waiting for the man to finish.

 

Shiro, with all due respect, looks completely fed up, but his movements are oddly precise. He’s not nearly as efficient as usual, but he acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing, twisting when necessary and shifting his weight to his advantage. Lance has only to wait another moment before the pair sets off down the hall.  

 

It hits Lance as they reach the third level that Shiro was slow simply because he was out of practice. The knowledge is bitter in his throat but he doesn’t dwell on it, rushing forward.

 

The aliens that greet them are not Galra indeed. In fact, they’re far from it, more reptilian in form and less organized than Voltron’s usual purple enemies. Even so, it doesn’t take Lance long to figure out that they’re not any friendlier than the Galra. 

 

Keith has already disarmed a great many of them with his bayard, and Pidge has electrocuted enough that the invaders appear terrified of getting too close to her. When one does, however, she slips over or around them and shocks them from behind, eliciting a chorus of shrieks as the circle pulses to avoid her, and the cycle begins anew.

 

Hunk is in the corner mowing some of them down, preventing them from using one of the hallways, but Lance can see him struggling. It’s absolute chaos, here, and it is that difference that demonstrates to Lance another aspect of these creatures that differs from the Galra.

 

They’re scaly, speedy, and somewhat intelligent, but they don’t have the organization of the Galra. Maybe they’re space scavengers? Mercenaries? It’s hard to tell by their appearance alone, but Lance guesses they attacked the castle with the hope of retrieving the lions and earning eternal brownie points with the Galra.

 

Lance smiles. He’s sure that the paladins will be able to push them back with brute force and some clever maneuvering, and that the fight will be over soon.

 

“Get to the lions!” one of the lizard people shouts, and Lance realizes that it must be their commander. The comment only solidifies Lance’s earlier hypothesis. If they had really wanted to get to the lions, they wouldn’t have wasted their time busting a hole through the third floor. The poor planning and crude formation of the assault gives Lance just the push he needs to feel confident about this fight. Leaving Shiro to his own devices, Lance runs to face off against the lizard leader.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’re not getting those lions.” He levels his bayard at the leader, intent on incapacitating him now. With the leader out of commission, any semblance of formation will fall apart, and this brief turf war would be over soon after.

 

At least, that’s what Lance wishes would happen.

 

His bayard gives a stuttering click and hisses, but doesn’t shoot, and Lance feels a spike of panic. The lizard commander raises one scaly brow at him.

 

“Lance!” he hears Shiro’s warning shout not far off, and he catches a glimpse of the other man twirling and flipping through the air, avoiding the enemy advances. It’s at that moment that Lance realizes he’s really screwed up.

 

Lance had left Shiro. Shiro, who doesn’t have a bayard _or_  a Galra arm at the moment. In this state, Lance figures that Shiro must be nearly defenseless, because while martial arts ( _where did he even learn to move like that?_ ) can help him, they can only get him so far. He needs something stronger, something to help him while his normal weapon, his arm, is literally locked away.

 

And now Lance has no weapon of his own because his bayard has decided to stop working at the _worst possible time ever_. The lizard commander now stands between Lance and Shiro, blocking the easy path between them.

 

The commander creeps forward and Lance steps backwards, gripping his useless weapon as an extra shield. As if noticing his distress, Shiro ducks beneath an arm, jabs his own lizard man in the neck, and stands back up, calling out.

 

“You all right?”

 

“It’s the stupid bayard again. It was working earlier!” Lance finally shouts back at Shiro a split second before getting sacked. He lands once more on his sore ass and wrestles with the commander, who is using the spike-like scales on his arms to try and impale Lance on the floor. He manages to grab one hand onto a spike that sprouts from the top of the commander’s head and yanks on it with as much force as he can, using the bayard in his other hand as a crude club. He raps on the commander’s head repeatedly with the gun, but it only seems to make the creature mad, and Lance gasps as he’s lifted a foot off the ground and slammed back down. The wind leaves his lungs with a great whooshing sound and he sees spots, but he doesn’t stop struggling. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye Lance sees Shiro. Despite not having a weapon of his own, he’s somehow managed to take down four of those beasts, which lie crumpled at his feet. He’s darting back and forth as each new contender approaches, and Lance feels a bit of awe as he watches Shiro’s movements.

 

It’s animalistic, almost, how the lizard people fight, but Shiro matches it eye for eye. He knows when the hardest jabs will come, knows when to feint and when to dodge, and Lance finds his eyes widening as he glimpses Shiro’s movements, so raw and uncontained.

 

For while Lance tries to fight well in the battlefield and in training, and does his absolute best to be an asset on the field, he knows he cannot compare to Shiro. The man has had the fight implanted within him, as foreign as his Galra arm in origin but as smoothly integrated as it as well.

 

It truly is breathtaking, in a horrific sort of way.

 

Okay, actually, that might not be just Shiro. Lance is literally having the breath taken from his lungs.

 

While distracting himself worrying about Shiro (who clearly is doing perfectly fine on his own, a fact that worries and reassures Lance in equal parts), the commander has wrapped two scaly arms around Lance’s neck and begun to squeeze.

 

Death by suffocation, Lance is learning, is not any better than death by scaly spike. It’s important knowledge, sure, but not something that Lance has ever really wanted to know.

 

He drops his bayard and tugs at the claws bearing down on him with weakening fingers, grasping and pulling at anything he can get his hands on. The fight around him begins to dim and ebb and Lance finds his nails snagging on scales, but with no respite in sight. His mouth flaps open and he finds his arms fluttering to his sides, little use to him when he’s using all of his energy now just to suck in something, anything at all. He dimly notes a coldness on his neck that wasn’t there before, but it takes too long for him to realize that the coldness comes from his own blood, dripping down from where the commander’s claws have dug into his skin.

 

He knows he can’t let it end like this. He’s supposed to be the Blue Paladin, a leg of Voltron, a defender of the universe. He can’t die pitifully like this, with hardly a scratch on him. He’s supposed to go up in flames, dutifully sacrificing himself for his team or for some poor defenseless planet. He’s supposed to be given a hero’s celebration, he’s supposed to tell his family on earth what amazing things he has been a part of, he’s supposed to succeed in life, and in death.

 

But if he cannot even succeed in using his death wisely, how would he use his reclaimed life?

 

He needs to make sure that the other paladins are alive, at least.

 

He needs to make sure they’re alive.

 

Futilely he lolls his head back in Shiro’s direction, simply because he’s lost track of his other team members and doesn’t have the energy to search for them in the blurry chaos that is becoming his vision. It’s probably been only a few ticks, tops, but it feels like an eternity. Lance sees Shiro throw one of the intruders physically over his shoulder before slamming him down, and Lance would feel impressed normally, but he can’t really feel anything now. He does see Shiro glance his way, does see the way his eyes light up in horror, but Lance closes his eyes before the image can solidify. He inwardly claims it’s because he doesn’t want the last thing he sees to be that expression, but it’s too late, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight the reaction anyway.

 

And then, when his eyes shut, Blue speaks to him.

 

She has been silent since earlier in the hall, but her voice comes in full force now, shooting a jolt of energy through him that causes his body to physically flinch. They’re not words, they’re never words, but they mean as much as words can say and beyond that. 

 

It usually stops at that level, but Lance shudders as Blue digs deeper. Usually this kind of connection is saved for when everyone is piloting Voltron, for when they elect to get into each other’s heads, but now it’s like that but _more_. Lance can hear not only Blue but the other lions, lending him their energy, the energy to give more, to push harder, to fight to the bitter end. It burns in his core and reaches into his very being, and he knows at that moment that this sensation is unlike any that the other paladins have experienced before.

 

Lance is about to die, and the lions know it. The lions do not want their paladin to die, and so they imbue him with what he needs to survive.

 

Is this what quintessence feels like as it burns through a bare human soul, ripping through it like paper and building it anew in streaks of blinding light? Lance wishes to ask this question, shocked at his own eloquence, but knows what he must do.

 

He’s being given a second chance.

 

In less than a tick, images of his friends and family assault him, one after another. The final one is of Shiro, the last face he saw, but it is not contorted in his apparent horror. Instead, it glows with vitality, and Lance smiles back at the older man. 

 

They are flawed, all of them, but they are capable.

 

When Lance opens his eyes, he sees the edge of a blade pointing up toward the ceiling. His eyes travel down and he sees it enter the lizard commander and back out, finally coming to rest in Lance’s hand. The sword is warm and pulsing, and the sensation is so familiar that Lance doesn’t need to question what he is holding.

 

His bayard has responded to him, finally, and it has found a new purpose.

 

Lance does not dwell on the fact for long, because his only goal right now is to breathe.

 

The claws around his neck loosen and with a light shove, the commander slumps to the ground beside Lance, the bayard still protruding from his chest. Lance pays him no mind, focusing on sucking in anything to make this damn headache go away. His throat hurts and he wishes to press gentle fingers to it, to assess for any damage, but the short energy spurt the lions had given him is long gone. All he can do is lie motionless and listen to his heartbeat, hoping another lizard doesn’t decide to play encore.

 

Footsteps are the first thing he hears beside his own body functions, and he prays to whatever Altean gods there may be that they come from another paladin.

 

“Lance!”

 

_Thank you, Altean gods. I’ll promise to ask Coran for your names later, when I can actually, you know, talk again_.

 

“Lance, please look at me, please!”

 

Well that’s definitely Hunk, if the teary tone is anything to go by. His eyes flicker open again—when had he shut them?—and he sees Hunk at his side, hands hovering over him as if he wants to touch Lance but is too afraid of doing so in case he makes anything worse. At least Hunk’s position means that the dead commander’s body is no longer at Lance’s side. He doesn’t want to look at that longer than he has to, for various reasons, because the longer he thinks about it, the sicker he gets, and he doesn’t think his throat can handle vomiting on top of the abuse it’s already taken.

 

His eyes flicker a bit, enough to reassure Hunk, and Lance tries to glance to his other side. He’s sees Pidge, there in the corner of his vision, and he tries to make eye contact with her, but her gaze keeps darting back and forth between his throat and something behind him on the floor.

 

He can guess what it is. Only one person has been able to transform their bayard like Lance just has, and it’s as curious as it is frightening.

 

Instead of following that train of thought, Lance wants to ask if everyone is okay, if the intruders have left, but the only thing that comes out is a raspy cough, and he curls in on himself, turning to his side. Hunk finally decides that physical contact is necessary and places a gently hand on Lance awkwardly, but it’s another few moments before Lance is aware enough to realize that the room has been emptied and that someone is trying to usher him to stand. He really doesn’t want to stand right now, and really just wants to let the exhaustion overtake him, but a soft, accented voice tells him that Allura is speaking to him. 

 

“We need to get you healed up, Lance. Do you think you can walk with us to the pod?”

 

When did Allura get here? Time is so weird, post-quintessence high. He wonders if he’s having a quintessence hangover. His pounding headache, which has yet to recede, certainly thinks so, even if he doesn’t have enough knowledge of the substance to substantiate the claim. Nevertheless, he pushes himself to his feet. With Allura on one side and Hunk on the other, they slowly make their way to the pod.

 

Pidge steps ahead of him, clutching Lance’s bayard in one hand and her own in the other. She regards it with a mixture of intrigue and confusion, and Lance thinks he sees Keith eyeing it dubiously, but it becomes too hard to focus on them after a while, even when he knows they’re talking about him.

 

When he finally locates the black paladin, Lance tries to meet Shiro’s eye, but the strength needed to lift his head is too much for him to handle, and Allura ends up half dragging him the rest of the way to the pod.

 

He manages to connect with Shiro for a moment before the iciness takes over his being, and he tries to imbue as much emotion as he can to the other man.

 

As the lights go dark, he thinks he sees a tired, halfway reassuring smile.

 

-

 

When he comes to a couple days later, his throat still hurts, but at least he can talk, even if he sounds like Zarkon’s chain-smoking spawn. Pidge explains to him at the dining table that she’s been examining his bayard, but without any true knowledge of what caused it to shift. When he’s eaten his fill of space goo, Pidge finally relinquishes her hold of the weapon, and Lance grips it in unsteady hands. It’s somehow reverted back to its dormant state while he was asleep, so Pidge instructs him on what she wishes to see.

 

“Try to do what you normally do, the gun.”

 

He concentrates and with only a tick’s hesitance, it transforms into the gun he’s more used to.

 

“Okay, now try turning it into the sword.”

 

He focuses on the weapon in his hand and concentrates. It strains against him, resisting his call for assistance, but the resistance is different than the cold emptiness he felt two days prior. Instead of feeling dead in his hands, the bayard is living and pulsing, ready for his use if he can only show the fortitude to wield it.

 

With a satisfying click that Lance feels in his core, the bayard elongates and stretches, gracing him with the deadly power of a blade.

 

Maybe he owes Keith an apology for calling his weapon lame.

 

“Incredible,” Pidge whispers. “You’ve managed to learn something that takes normal paladins years.”

 

“Years?” he croaks, confusion coloring his features.

 

“Coran and Allura explained that many paladins can use their bayards in multiple forms, like—” She clears her throat, noticing Lance’s sharp look, and moves on.

 

“Anyway, many paladins of old used to train for years to learn how to transform the bayard, but not all of them could get it to cooperate like that. It’s amazing that you’ve been able to do it so quickly, with minimal training, and in such a compromising state.”

 

As much as Lance would love to take the praise and enjoy the party that this new ability certainly owes him, he can’t let Pidge go uncorrected. “But it wasn’t me.”

 

Her chin tilts slightly up, the same gesture she uses when she’s confused at a malfunctioning piece of equipment or difficult problem, and she opens her mouth to ask. Lance answers before her.

 

“It was the lions. They gave me the...I don’t know what to call it. The power? I was going to die, and the lions spoke to me and gave me the energy to use the bayard. They didn’t want to see me die.”

 

He neglects to admit that the first time the bayard transformed into the sword is not so clear in his memory, but he knows that what he can remember of the lions is true.

 

Pidge regards him carefully, before quirking her lip, typing away on a handheld device.

 

“That explains the high levels of quintessence in your system.”

 

“I knew quintessence was involved!” Pidge jumps at Lance’s outburst, but he’s too excited that he actually guessed something scientific correctly to care.

 

“It also explains why you spent so long in the pod.”

 

“Hey,” he points a finger at her before pointing it back to his neck, daring her to argue. “Godzilla here did a real number on me.”

 

“Still,” she purses her lips but keeps typing away as she continues, “You were more out of it than you should have been.”

 

“I was nearly choked to death, how else was I supposed to react?”

 

“ _Lance_ ,” she warns, and in that moment, Lance realizes that Pidge was worried about him. She may seem somewhat detached to his condition now, but Lance can see in the curve of her brow and in her attention to detail that Lance had given her a good fright. He swallows and smiles, a soft genuine one, and reaches to push her screen down. She’s annoyed for a second before seeing his expression, and he chooses that moment to strike.

 

“Thank you, for being there for me. And for looking after my bayard.”

 

“Ah,” she clears her throat awkwardly, but the smile she returns is just as caring, just as intimate. “It’s not like you were going to use it anyway, being the space popsicle you were.”

 

“Wha—” he gasps, “I am not a space popsicle!”

 

“I don’t know,” she says, her face a barely cracking image of scientific professionalism. “My sensors detect that you were most definitely a space popsicle, for two whole days.”

 

He flings a bit of leftover food goo from his plate that she deftly dodges and it earns him a kick to the shin, but he’s grinning all the same.

 

Pidge is hurting, he knows. She misses her family, just like Lance does, and she worries and frets like the rest of them, in her own unique way. But she knows how to take care of herself, and how to take care of her family, her space family, and Lance can’t thank her enough.

 

He sees a bit of himself in her. Not the science-obsessed nerd part, not the daring green paladin part, or even the lonely child part. He sees within her a sense of normalcy, one that doesn’t feel stifling or forced, but which is comforting and genuine.

 

He leaves her to geek out over some new data, but takes his bayard with him. He has a few more people to impress with it, but he thinks he knows who he wants to show first.

 

-

 

“Shiro?”

 

Lance finds Shiro a few hours and a nap later in what can only be described as the castle’s living room. It has some couches and weird Altean chairs that Coran denies are beanbags (but which are totally beanbags in Lance’s opinion) and some Altean books that Coran is working to get translated, scattered all over a table in front of a couch. The castle is always good with verbal translations, but the written word still makes the system struggle now and then.

 

Shiro looks up from one of the aforementioned Altean books and Lance looks over to try and spot what he’s reading. The letters on the cover blur in his vision and, fearing the oncoming headache, he decides that perhaps that particular novel will have to wait.

 

He plops down next to Shiro on the couch and gives him his best shit-eating grin, and Shiro smiles back, setting the book down on the table next to them.

 

“So you’ve been awake for how many hours, again? And you’ve already done what?”

 

Lance waves one hand at Shiro’s comedic accusation, the other held onto his bayard, and as Shiro turns to regard him fully, Lance notices that he now sports an even number of appendages.

 

“I see Pidge got you back online.” Lance points to the metal arm, which seems shinier than the last time he had seen Shiro with it. Shiro holds it up to the light, and Lance nods in approval.

 

“Yeah, she sure works wonders.”

 

“And no new paint job. What a shame.”

 

Shiro’s arm buzzes as he clenches it shut. “She was a bit too busy to add that feature, thankfully.”

 

Reaching forward, Lance bats at the arm. “I can always draw on it for you. I’m no artist, but I’ve been known to make do when it counts.”

 

“Ah, no thank you.” Shiro crosses both arms on his chest and huffs, but it soon morphs into a laugh, and Lance feels something warm glow in his chest.

 

It isn’t warm like the lions, or any other related situations, but it’s warm all the same. Blue doesn’t speak up, and Lance considers that her sign of approval.

 

“How are you doing?” Lance asks, after a moment of comfortable silence. Lance knows his question is out of character and oddly perceptive, but he would feel bad _not_  asking it. 

 

The lions have shown him that waiting to speak one’s mind doesn’t bode well. He needs to learn to say what he means when it counts.

 

Shiro’s horrified expression from that day is still burned into the back of his eyelids, and it takes a moment for Lance to shake it off to regard Shiro’s current softer expression. The older man looks at Lance with a barely contained relief, but Lance notices the exhaustion behind the expression.

 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, reaching forward to pat Lance on his shoulder once. It’s a gesture of comfort, Lance realizes, blinking at the touch. 

 

“Are _you_  all right, Lance? Does your throat hurt?”

 

Lance doesn’t want the attention turned on him, not in this way. He has some things to settle and his own well-being has already been accounted for.

 

“I’m perfect,” he tries to reassure him, but the crack in his voice is damning. Shiro’s expression falters at Lance’s slip up, and he rushes to correct his error.

 

“Really, Shiro, I’m fine. A little worse for wear, but I’ll survive.”

 

The Lance of years prior would have dreamed to hold the attention of one as esteemed as Shiro. The Lance of the present simply feels guilty for making Shiro worry, because really, he’s fine, and he’ll heal.

 

Even so, he knows how close to death he came, and he knows that for someone like Shiro, their leader and guide, such a close call can only loosen one’s confidence in his leadership capabilities. Or at least, that is what Lance surmises Shiro must be thinking. And he doesn’t wish Shiro to be guilty for something that Lance brought upon himself.

 

“You were in the cryo-pod for a long time,” Shiro recalls, pulling Lance out of his musing.

 

“Oh, yeah, about that…” Lance trails off. He wants Shiro to know that his extended medical coma wasn’t because of his injury, but caused from what saved him. It’s ironic, almost, how something that protected him can also overpower him if he’s not fully prepared to acknowledge it.

 

“Pidge told me you encountered quintessence?” Shiro phrases it like a question, and Lance realizes that the substance must be seen ambivalently in Shiro’s eyes. With his past experience with the Druids, Lance doesn’t blame him.

 

“Who told you that?” Lance asks, jerking his head back in surprise as he registers Shiro’s words for a second time.

 

“I spoke with Pidge earlier.” She must have seen Shiro while Lance was napping, he figures. That, at least, gives Lance a starting point for the conversation he wishes to launch next. He’ll simply go in, explain to Shiro the details of what happened, and reassure him that no more danger can come from the mercurial behavior of his bayard.

 

“Can you hear them?” Shiro starts again, and Lance freezes. “The lions? Do they speak to you?”

 

Pidge hadn’t pressed the issue of the rampant telepathic lions, so Lance assumed that she didn’t find it that odd. Now he is reevaluating that opinion, if Shiro is questioning it directly. 

 

Lance has always suspected that his connection with the ancient cats goes deeper than with the other paladins, but Shiro’s confusion only proves this true. He needs to address this, both for Shiro’s sanity and for his own.

 

“Okay usually, no. Like, every once in a while maybe. So yes?” Lance scratches a cheek and tries to face down Shiro’s concerned expression. He needs to explain this in clearer terms.

 

“Um, it’s like this,” he begins, spreading his arms wide as he explains. “Blue is my lion and she speaks to me when I’m trying to pilot her, right? She tells me how to move and what buttons to push and all that fun stuff. But sometimes, she talks to me when I’m not piloting her. It’s like we have little conversations, like she’s an extra presence in my head.”

 

Shiro looks sickeningly worried at Lance’s description, so Lance rushes to reassure him.

 

“It’s not bad! In fact,” he takes a deep breath as he prepares himself to say something that has been in the back of his mind for a while now. “I think that that’s what’s supposed to happen. We’re supposed to bond with our lions, right? And they’re really intelligent, Shiro.” Lance’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “They’re so damn smart, and maybe they can get a little nosy at times, but I think we’re supposed to get to know them like this.” It’s intimate, he thinks, and it’s the kind of connection that pushes him to try harder in battles. Not only is his body fighting for what he believes in, but his mind and spirit, backed by the power of an ancient and alluring spirit.

 

And as Lance explains this revelation, he realizes himself. He’s found a niche.

 

“Up until now, the other lions are usually quiet. If they say anything, Blue usually acts the middle man. Only…” he flounders a bit. “Only emotions really come from the other lions, usually. But when I needed help, when I couldn’t save myself, I could hear them.” 

 

He holds up his bayard and wills it into a sword. Shiro flinches at the sudden transformation, but Lance presses on, relentless.

 

“They don’t want their paladins to die,” he finally says, somewhat breathless. And his throat is beginning to creak ominously and ache again, but he needs to finish. “They want us to succeed because they see through us.”

 

Lance retracts his bayard and sets it down between him and Shiro and waits. The other man is biting his lip and Lance knows he is struggling to come up with what to say. It’s an odd sight for someone who usually presents himself as collected and dependable. Shiro is always the one to speak logic, to say what needs to be said for the good of the team or the mission, so seeing him stop to think about his next words is a novel experience, but one that lays him bare.

 

“When I’m in the cockpit,” he finally begins, voice slow and steady, “the black lion tells me how to pilot, obviously. But it never speaks to me apart from that.”

 

Lance quirks his brows and opens his mouth to protest, but Shiro holds up a hand to stop him.

 

“I think we all know you have the best connection with the lions.”

 

And maybe Keith, Lance thinks, but they’re not about to open that can of worms. It’s a discussion for another time, and Lance needs to focus on the discussion they’re having right now, in the present.

“I, on the other hand, probably have the weakest connection to the lions. And yet, I’m expected to lead Voltron.”

 

Lance doesn’t like where Shiro is going with this, but he clamps his mouth shut to hear him out. It’s difficult, to keep quiet when he would rather let out exactly how he feels about the situation, but he tries hard out of respect to the other man.

 

“The lions are too advanced for me to understand. But I know that, if something were to happen, to any of us, I’m not the one who would be able to connect to them if push comes to shove. Not like you.”

 

_Oh_ , Lance thinks, and suddenly the room seems smaller, more constricting. _He’s apologizing_.

 

Shiro doesn’t feel like he deserves to be leader. He doesn’t realize how much he’s done, how much he is capable of, and how much the others need him in their lives. 

 

Lance feels like a fool. He expected someone like Shiro to realize his own limits and faults, but to also realize his own potential. Shiro is not someone to wallow in self-pity, but he’s also plagued by the same reservations that Lance himself feels.

 

“Zarkon is not the black paladin,” Lance says, his expression grim but unwavering.

 

“What?” Shiro starts, pulling back. “But the lion didn’t—”

 

“Blah, blah, ‘the lion didn’t choose me,’ whatever,” Lance throws up his hands but doesn’t relent. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. Zarkon is not the black paladin. No one but you is the black paladin.”

 

“But—” _I couldn’t protect you, I didn’t do enough, I’m not a true member of this team_.

 

Lance can’t discern whether the words are his or Shiro’s, and it is that universality that gives him the courage to dispel them.

 

“I know it’s true, because they told me,” and suddenly Lance is back on the third floor, reptilian arms around his neck, about to die, and he remembers, clearly, the voices of the lions. He remembers Blue, strong in his ear and loyal to a fault. He remembers Red, wild but determined. He remembers Green, lithe and agile. He remembers Yellow, standing strong as a shield. And he remembers Black. Black, who chose to hover over Shiro during the fight, who stayed as a constant presence by Shiro’s shoulder if he could only open his eyes and _see_.

 

“And I know, because there’s no one else I would choose to follow.”

 

Shiro’s stoicism is crumbling at this point and Lance might admit that he’s ready to shed a tear or a hundred, but he gasps at what Shiro does next. The man grabs Lance’s bayard, places it on the table beside the couch, and bridges the gap to pull Lance into a hug.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Shiro says, barely loud enough for Lance to hear, but the embrace is enough for Lance to get the message.

 

None of the paladins fit the hero mold, none of them are the immortal symbols of freedom and justice in the galaxy, and they are not defined by Voltron alone.

 

They are, however, a family, a collection of individuals united not by one characteristic, but by many shared traits.

 

They care for each other.

 

They would die for each other.

 

And they can most definitely learn from each other. 

 

Lance blinks back these emotions and grips Shiro tighter, desperate for the contact. Blue purrs in his ear, proud of him, and for once, he doesn’t push the sensation away.


End file.
